The little boy sat on his ball, all alone,
Just twiddling his fingers and thumbs.
He couldn’t decide: was it best to go home,
Or wait longer for people to come?
They’d arranged to meet up at a quarter past four,
By the swings he had said that he’d see ‘em.
He’d already waited an hour, or more.
Could it be that they thought he meant p.m.?
No comments:
Post a Comment